Reflections From Bedlam
by Alan Capella
Summary: An echo of thoughts after the events on Fleet Street, regarding the fate of the unfortunate boy who brought the barber's song to a close.


The air seemed thick and grimy. Heavy. Suffocatin'. Swallowin' sound and color, leaving only a muted pallet of a world, as if a cruel-hearted god had wrung it nearly dry, only tiny bits of color lingerin' in the edges. Dust seemed to coil and uncoil in the grainy filters o'light, shinin' through the cracks in the decayin' ceiling. He counted 'em all. Counted 'em up, counted 'em down, like a never endin' children's game, a childhood rhyme with no end.

A shriek, a chitter. Ever so often the stillness would be interrupted. A stone tossed carelessly in a murky lake, leavin' only ripples behind it, before the lake smoothed once again. He didn't react to 'em. Oh no. He didn't hear a single word, a single scream of a fractured mind, echoin' in this desolate cage – the din that was howlin' within his own was much too thunderous for that, y'see. A cackle like that of a witch sounded from somewhere distant, at least by his standards. Then again, when you're locked, trapped, ensnared – have your word of choice – even a fraction of a step beyond the entrapment seems like the longest journey. Miles and miles that he'd never thought he'd reach.

He blinked. Dusty lashes over sunken brown eyes. A face neglected. Perhaps in a better life he might've been handsome, but it could hardly be seen on his features. A boy of sixteen or seventeen, with the haggard expression and worn attitude of a man centuries beyond his age. His hair'd never been his shining feature – Hell! The boy was on the road t'bald at eight, with just a thin layer of scruff on the top of 'is 'ead… Time didn't do him any favors to its thickenin'; after the years it seemed to have the consistency of a mop of broken feathers on 'is 'ead. Not to mention the fact that it had been bleached white from some horrible twist of fate. His thinned frame, wide, haunted eyes, and chalky pallor… All that was left was an impish ghost of a boy, a terrible spectre mocking what great opportunities had once awaited him.

Tobias Ragg. Cute kid once; charmin' and persuasive, even under pressure. Bit simple in the head though, eh? A poor kid from the workhouse, a-shiftin' hands from caretaker to caretaker, from slave-driver to slave-driver.

The same Toby found grinding meat mindlessly, ravin' like a madman… an echo of the flames that had just been snuffed within that slice of Fleet Street. The same Toby with blood on his shirt and hands, the dead strewn around him in th'meat shop. The same Toby that had nearly been hung for murder. The same Toby locked away in Bedlam, until he snapped. His mind, already so haunted, became a literal broken record. The same thoughts just spinnin' away. Only in the first few years did he wake screamin' them, whispering them under his breath.

A gangly wisp, screaming in his bed. A quavering shape, chattering to himself.

"-T-three times. Three times-! Three times through th'grinder-!"

"May I 'ave- May I 'ave your 'ttention perlease…"

"Nothin's gonna harm- Gonna harm- Gonna harm…!"

But those years died away, and these songs of what could not be forgotten were silenced. They might've once been healed y'know? A spot of love, and the wounds could've been covered. Scars'd be left, yes, but in the end he could've been salvaged. Not now though. Endless nights of the songs of madmen, screams and mental replays of that night. Over and over and over and over and over again until he wished for death. A welcomin' escape.

Now it had sunk in, seeped int' his core. It was there f'good, locked up tight and snug. He blinked, he breathed, he tried t'be good. Tried to keep himself from lashin' out – attackin' that demon, f'what he did…

-Oh but he's been a good boy- I swears t'you-! He sits and he sits and he counts the pieces of dust a-driftin' from the ceilin', an' he gets sweeties for being a good little child. Yes! He's been good. An' he will be, I promise you. Ain't no harm to be comin' from him. No sir- No sir-! Countin' and sittin' and blinkin' in the dust, all just games-! Pat-a-cake over 'n over again as the days go on 'n on, the same thoughts runnin' an' runnin' an' runnin' through his mind- He keeps a shrinkin' away, but he's fine. I swear he's fine! I swear it!

A'cause he knows wot he did was right.

He slit the throat of a demon. I slit it, yes sir.

An' I'd slit a thousand more if'n I ever should get the chance.


End file.
